


Thou Shalt Be King Hereafter

by continuum



Series: Skyrim Sidestories [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 17:19:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6966106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/continuum/pseuds/continuum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One by one, the old women straightened and greeted him:<br/>“All hail, Ulfric!” the first called. “Hail to thee, liberator of Markarth!”<br/>“All hail Ulfric,” the second echoed, “Hail to thee, Jarl of Windhelm!”<br/>“All hail Ulfric,” the third croaked. “Thou shalt be High King hereafter!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thou Shalt Be King Hereafter

High King Istlod met them at the gates of Solitude, a ragged band coming up from the south road. Igmund dismounted and bowed before his King, and was swiftly raised up and clapped on the back. But Istlod did not miss the battle-worn woman who hung a pace behind him. “What bloody soldier is that?” he asked his nephew, and added, “She can report, as seemeth by her plight, of the revolt of the ‘newest state’.” For, the King knew by his letters, the battle for Markarth was fresh-won.

Igmund clapped the soldier warmly on the back. “This is the Praefect who fought against my captivity! Praefect Rikke, tell to the King what you told me, of the battle as you last saw it.”

A hint of a smile betrayed her solemn tones. “The battle was doubtful, the armies like two rams whose horns are entwined, and each impede the other. The wretched rebel Madanach, who we suspect of taking aid from the western isles, seemed at first to be fortune’s favorite. But he counted his victory too soon. For brave Ulfric, disdaining fortune, with blade bloodied from the assault on the gate, carved out his passage until he faced the rebel King, and struck him down.”

“The city is held by Ulfric now?”

“Yes. As the bear holds the salmon. And Praefect Galmar, who by Ulfric fought like doubled arrows to their mark, hunts the remaining rebels in the field.”

“Oh, valiant cousins! Oh, worthy gentlemen! And you, your haste in bringing me these words becomes you as well as your wounds; they smack of honor both. It pains me to reward Ulfric’s good news with ill—while he has been afield, his father the Jarl of Windhelm has left us for fairer halls. Praefect, go get yourself a healer for your wounds, and bear my thanks for the life and liberty of my cousin Igmund. And you, brave cousin, take your rest and return swiftly to your city, and with his father’s former title greet Ulfric. I will not have the realm bereft of a Bear in Eastmarch.”

(-S-)          (-S-)          (-S-)

Ulfric and Galmar took a wary stroll about the city they now held and defended. The reach-men’s uprising was quelled, both within and without. Still, dark green-tinged clouds hung heavy over the city, and the air was rank with the stench of battle.

“I’ve never seen a day so foul yet so fair,” Ulfric commented.

Galmar put a hand out, stopping his friend even as both touched their hilts at the sight before them. In the lowest part of the city, on a bank where the river flowed through the metalworks, three shapes writhed, three old Breton women clothed in layers upon layers of rags, with wild paint on their faces.

“Let’s be careful,” Galmar cautioned. “These must be wild witch-women, or else Daedric spirits that look like such.” He raised his voice. “What do you say? Are you living women, are you inhabitants of this place?”

The witches froze in their eerie contortions, froze and turned to pierce the two with the wild whites of their eyes. Slowly, each placed a withered finger on her thin lips.

Ulfric had little patience for such theatrics. He stepped forward, hand on his hilt. “Speak, if you can. What are you?”

The first witch straightened with a suddenness that made both soldiers twitch back. “All hail, Ulfric!” she called. “Hail to thee, liberator of Markarth!”

Like a marionette, then, the second witch snapped up straight. “All hail Ulfric,” she echoed, “Hail to thee, Jarl of Windhelm!”

The third straightened in a fluid, sinewy motion. “All hail Ulfric,” she croaked. “Thou shalt be High King hereafter!”

Galmar rejoined his startled companion’s side. “High King, eh? You greet your liberator with great predictions of royal hope. A fair trick, to look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not. Have any predictions for me, too, damsels?”

The first witch looked between them. “All hail Galmar, loyal soldier. Lesser than Ulfric, and greater.”

“Not so happy, yet _much_ happier,” the second added.

“Thou shalt _get_ kings, though thou be none.”

The first witch tittered into her hand.

Ulfric stepped into motion, drawing his blade. “That’s enough. You are neither seers nor riddlers; you are tellers of falsehoods. I stand here as your liberator, but as my father still lives I am no Jarl of Windhelm. And King Istlod is healthy and well; should he perish before his swaddled babe come of age, my father stands to be named by the Moot. And yet, if something has befallen my father— tell me, tell me how you come by this strange intelligence.” He grew disturbed as they all three merely stared up at him with their faces stained and painted with strange designs. “Why do you dance on this blasted bank? I demand your answers!”

The two soldiers coughed and stepped back as billowing smoke rose from where the witches stood. Galmar, thinking that he heard the splash of water, ran to the river to find it undisturbed. “Where have they gone?”

Ulfric did not search, but stood as a pillar in the smoke. “Into the air,” he muttered. “And what seems vital and corporeal is so easily gone as a last breath on the wind.”

Then even the smoke had cleared, and they stood in the evening on a silent bank in this strange twisted city. “Ulfric,” Galmar started slowly. “Were there really three witches here a moment ago? Did you also see their painted faces and hear their riddled words? Might we be in the snare of some spell?”

Ulfric frowned. “Your children shall be kings.”

He shrugged. “ _You_ shall be king.”

“And… my father…”

Just then, Igmund came quickly around the river-bend, and strode the more quickly for having seen them. “Ulfric!” he called. “That peerless woman, Rikke, overtook my captors on the field and saved me from a certain death. I’ve just returned from Solitude, where the King happily received the news of your success. Through all the Holds they are singing your praises twice-over, for the defense against the elves and now the defense against these madmen of the Reach.” He sobered. “But Istlod also bade me call you Jarl of Windhelm. And though we all sorrow at your great father’s passing, the title adds to your worthy honors.”

Ulfric exchanged a glance with Galmar. “So, the demons speak true,” he muttered. And, to Igmund, “Leave us a moment of peace, please. We will join you at the Keep.”

When the man had gone, he repeated. “So, _your_ children shall be kings.”

Galmar shook his head. “If so, you will be King first. But Ulfric, let’s be wary. The Princes of Darkness do not need lies to entice men to do themselves great harm; telling truths can drive us to the same effect.”

They walked the gloaming stairs, Ulfric brooding in muttered thought. “The stuff of prophecy is neither ill nor good, neither foul nor fair. To be Jarl, to return home, is fair indeed. But to lose my father, without some final speech to put to rest all of these years… is too cruel a price. And, how often have I thought of what I would do, were I sitting Istlod’s throne? What letters, braver than his, I would send to Mede in his broken tower? But Istlod is my kinsman, and a good man, and for another to ascend the throne would mean some terrible fate must befall him. Is it for that fear that my heart pounds so? No, it is some even more terrible imagining, whose execution flees my mind and fades firmly into fantasy."

"What horror is this, Ulfric, that has you so rapt?"

"No matter worth speaking on, Galmar. Rather, tell me this: Does prophecy know the hand of chance, that would kill men and put others in their place? If chance would name me King, then surely chance shall crown me, without my hand in it. For what man, even a King, is so strong as to stand against the winds of fate?” And, too soon, before Galmar could offer another word, they were at the steps of the Keep, and Ulfric hushed him. “Let’s keep our own counsel and think upon what we have seen today, and later speak our free hearts to each other.”

“Very gladly.”


End file.
